


Gone

by notpoetry



Series: Future [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 07:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11595393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notpoetry/pseuds/notpoetry
Summary: Sometimes it's the people who we knew forever that hurt us the most when they're gone. Other times it's the people who we never meet. Based on my story Future, but works as a standalone.





	Gone

It was a resonant, almost blinding white brightness that assaulted his senses. There was no roof, no sky, nothing to hold his feet to the ground, yet he still felt a connection to whatever floor there was. It certainly wasn’t natural nor part of his world, but he felt like he recognised it from somewhere, sometime, someplace long ago. There was nothing he could compare it to, nothing that was remotely similar to the unrelenting white.

George turned and looked over his shoulder, but no, nothing there to meet him, nothing to tell him where he was or why he was there. He didn’t remember _how_ he’d gotten there either. Had something gone wrong in the shop? Was Ron okay? His mother would kill him if something happened to ickle Ronniekins. The thought didn’t feel right, he didn’t think he’d been working.

Maybe he’d been at home? Had something happened there? He hoped not, something might’ve happened to Hermione if it had…

He looked over his shoulder once more, a spark of hope igniting his eyes. It continued to shine dully as he turned to look ahead; Hermione wasn’t here (wherever _here_ was) and he was still alone, but she wasn’t with him in this desolate light, and he allowed himself to tentatively assure himself she was alright.

A small fire begin to glint in the distance, hovering at the same height as his head. George had to squint to see it, but it was definitely there. Fire meant heat, but he felt no warmth nor cold, he didn’t feel anything at all. He took in a breath, testing the air in his revelation, but whatever was around him was too similar to his own warmth or cold or void to estimate any difference. When he inhaled the fire seemed to come closer, become richer, deepen in colour. He tried again – though he felt no need to breathe, strangely enough – and it had the same response, yet this time something pale began to materialise under it, fading in and out as he walked closer to the flame.

But it wasn’t a flame George realised as he broke out into a run. It was hair – red, vibrant, distinctive hair that naturally belonged to very few people in the world. And he was half-correct in calling it ‘people’, for the torso of the lone person began to appear under what he had initially mistaken for logs in his context-less haze. It had been a blurry neck and shoulders, and they belonged to the one person he thought he’d never see again in his lifetime.

“Fred?” George called out. With the utterance of his name the rest of his body popped into view, still like a fog in the way it spread around, but determinedly a body.

Said body turned, confirming his suspicions. Fred, in his smoked-shaped form, stood in front of him in the land of light, beaming brightly enough to throw off the undiluted white of wherever they were. George didn’t stop running until he’d thrown himself into his brothers arms, although he didn’t exactly fall into them, rather he fell through them. Fred seemed to hardly notice, yet he himself felt cheated. After all this time, he couldn’t even touch his brother?

“Georgie! It’s been a while twinnie dearest, how are ya?” Fred asked, acting like they’d just found each other after setting off a dung bomb outside the Potions classroom years ago.

“M’alright, Forge, I’m alright…where am I, though?”

Fred shoved his hands into his pockets and looked around casually. “You’re about five miles south of who knows. This is my second time here, myself. ‘Course, I was never as blurry as you are now.”

George looked at his twin. He had a gallant grin gracing his features, but it wasn’t a look of hiding a lie, it was a tone of playful seriousness that he knew meant business. “You’re shitting me, right? You’re the blurry one, I’m…”

He looked down to confirm he was in a solid, natural human form. He was. “I’m fine.”

“Then something’s holding you back.” Fred said simply as he shrugged. It wasn’t a judgemental tone, it didn’t imply anything, it simply was. He had been used to his brother’s constant double meanings in anything he said; he couldn’t avoid it being a magical twin. This was different territory, both in environment and communication with Fred.

Fred looked just like he did right before he’d died in battle. There were no scars, no lingering fears, no tell-tale signs he’d been dead for just over five years, nothing. He didn’t recognise the clothes he was wearing, but he could distinguish his old dragon-skin coat in the moments Fred’s body was more of a solid form than an illusion. He hadn’t aged wherever he was, either. They weren’t identical anymore; technically they hadn’t been since George had had his ear sliced off, but now there were subtle differences in their skin, in their hair colour, in their build. Fred’s hairstyle was the same as their pre-birthday haircut in 1997, still spiked slightly at the front and “radiating mischief” as he’d described it back then. George’s hair was long, covering his missing ear and as soft as anything thanks to borrowing Hermione’s fancy hair care products for a few years now.

“Holding me back from what?” George asked, unable to bury the fear from his voice.

Fred reached out then, and George could feel a sense of coolness where Fred had attempted to touch him. It was more than he’d felt running at him before, which was as comforting as it was alarming. He shouldn’t have been able to feel his dead brother. “From joining me.”

An aberrant feeling invaded his senses. His blood turned cold with the knowledge of his coming demise, but a surge of happiness lifted his heart to his throat when he realised that he’d be finally back with his twin, burning the bridge that had ever dared to keep them apart.

“But it doesn’t make sense.” Fred continued easily as his brow furrowed. “This shouldn’t…you shouldn’t be here, Georgie; not now at least. It’s too early for you.”

“It was too early for you.” George contested. “I’m ready to move on, Fred; I want to be with you again. You’ve no idea, no bloody idea how hard it’s been without you around. I’d nearly done myself in twice because I felt so damn alone.”

“I know, George, I watched you.” Fred agreed. “I’ve felt the same, I have, but y’know what? I know you’re gonna join me one day. Today isn’t that day, but one day you’ll be here and I’ll be right here to collect you and take you with me. You’ve got too much to live for at the moment, and Granger needs you.”

“Needs me for what?”

“I don’t know.” Fred sighed. “I know that…I don’t know. Something bad? Sort of… something, it’s unexpected? Yeah, that’s the reading I’m getting. Something unexpected is gonna happen to her, someone might hurt her, and she needs you. I don’t know.” He’d thrown his arms up in exasperation. “My connection to your world isn’t so great anymore. I used to know everything that happened, like it was one of those television things, I could See everything, it was marvellous. Then the picture started to fade and I could only Hear things like a radio, but even now that’s fading. These days it’s more like an impression of things. I can’t tell you more than that, I doubt I’m supposed to be telling you any of this.”

“Who makes the rules where you are?”

Fred sighed. “It’s complicated.” he said as he began to sat down in the nothingness. A bench appeared before he could fall on his arse, and Fred had the easy confidence of someone who’d been practising that move for years, but he didn’t acknowledge what he’d done, didn’t brag like he used to. George reached out to touch the bench and nearly jumped when his hand didn’t go through it. He sat down next to Fred, not bothering to try and touch him. He couldn’t tell if his brother was fading or become more solid, and he couldn’t determine how he felt about it. “That’s something I’m definitely not telling you about, but you’ll find out when you join me someday.”

“But if you’re not connected to my world, won’t you forget who I am?” George was serious when he asked it, but Fred appeared disgusted at the question.

“No way. Nuh-uh. Not how it works. Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon were here for me, and they’d been dead for what, twenty years when I came over? They still remembered me from when they could See everything, still remembered us from watching over Mum.”

“Did they know about the War?”

“Well a whole bunch of teenagers and young adults turning up at once sorta gives it away but yeah, they all eventually found out. It was hard to remember how I died – hell, I don’t even know how long I’ve been here, but it was…it was a wall, wasn’t it?”

“Five years.” George said with a lump in his throat. “And yeah, a wall fell on you while we were battling and Percy couldn’t warn you in time.” Fred could chatter on about his death like it was nothing, but it was still hard for him to hear about it, even if he was supposedly in the place where he’d join him.

“Thought so. Anyway, I turned out here in this big white room for about a minute and then our dear uncles moved me along. I was able to See you all right after Moldy died and our dear uncles had to restrain me from finding my way back to you. It hurt to see you so broken up George, but you seem to be going pretty well, you even picked up quite the bird! I had the reassurance of knowing I’d be the one to pick you up when you got here too, and look at us now!” Fred grinned as he tried to nudge George. His elbow fell through him and left a cold spot but it didn’t seem to faze his brother. “I don’t know how long it’s been for you here, but since you’re still hazy I think you need to decide what you’re-”

George was thrown off the bench as his body began to shake, beginning at his shoulders and reverberating throughout his body. His chin slammed on his chest involuntarily and he felt sharp pricks in his biceps. He looked up at Fred from the ground to find him flashing in and out of existence.

The pain in one arm stopped before he could say anything and Fred came back, standing and blurrier than before, looking troubled. “I think it’s time to decide, brother.”

“What should I do?” he cried as his chest began to feel forceful pushes in between his lungs.

“Try and go back!” Fred shouted in pieces as he began to flash out of existence again. “This isn’t where you should be, you know that! Go home, live your life, join me in the future. I’ll be right here waiting, Georgie. Send my love to Granger and the Weasleys!”

George sucked in a breath as he tried to keep Fred steady. The radiant glow of wherever they were began to fade into black, and George called out for Fred.

“I love you, George! Raise some hell for me!”

“George!” a harsh, heartbroken voice called. “Breathe, George!”

George sat up abruptly, smashing his head against another. Both of them shout out in pain, but he was wrapped up in a tight hug and smothered by unruly hair as Hermione wept openly into his neck. His arm tingled in places, four to be exact, and he realised belatedly that they were most likely from fingernails digging into his arm. Her sobs sounded dry, as if she’d been crying over him for hours instead of mere moments. How long had she been here while he’d…

He’d died.

He’d well and truly died for a moment.

Hermione had found him dead on her couch.

His arms wrapped around her frame as he rocked her against him, shushing her for no reason. If he’d found her unresponsive on his couch he’d probably punch a wall if she tried to shush him, but she must’ve found it reassuring as her cries became softer. His brow furrowed as he considered the girl in his arms and her reaction to his short episode. Why wasn’t she sending him straight to St. Mungo’s and demanding tests for him? Her

The only noise in the small flat came from Hermione’s sniffles and he played with her hair in the way he’d leaned she’d liked over the years. Their three-year anniversary was fast approaching. Hermione acted like she didn’t care, she wanted to save the festivities for the major anniversaries like the five and twenty-five year ones. George paid no mind to that, he celebrated the little things in life as often as possible.  This year he planned on taking her away for a week or two, giving her the time and space to relax from her self-studies. Shacklebolt had talked up her idea of a magical tutoring/preschool/foundation/whatever she was calling it on whatever day to the head of the Department of Magical Education, who had in turn given her five years to set out her curriculums, policies, research, test runs, and whatever else she needed to establish her goals. While she was doing brilliantly with her studies it was also burning her out, so a week or two away would be good to refresh her mind and help her become inspired.

If he worked in a quick shag or two during the weeks that would just be a bonus.

George moved his hand in her hair to her forehead, checking it for a lump. He couldn’t feel anything on her but he could definitely feel where their heads had collided. He brushed the stray hairs away from her forehead, hoping she wasn’t in pain.

His attention strayed to the clock as it quietly chimed the new hour. “Hey, love, why are you home so early? I thought you’d still be at the library.” George asked. Hermione had taken to studying at a muggle library as she could find more general child development books and journal articles there. It didn’t help that the study of children in the wizarding world was either entirely about squibs or magical development.

“I was planning on staying longer, but I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Same as last night?”

“Yeah.” Hermione said quietly from under his chin. He’d slept over last night when she hadn’t been able to make it to their dinner plans in muggle London. She’d been complaining about strong cramps and something about abnormal bleeding but had assured him that everything would be quite alright after a long sleep and a big breakfast the next day. He’d seen to both, ensuring that her sporadic insomnia didn’t make an appearance and had even Floo’d his Mum to get a healthy breakfast ready before he left for work. Not that he couldn’t cook, mind you, he just wanted the best for Hermione, especially since it was about the second time he’d ever heard her complain about…womanly troubles.

“How are you feeling now, then?” George asked gently. It wasn’t that he was adverse to the idea of periods or that sort of thing in general, but Hermione usually kept that information to herself, and he had grown up with five brothers for Merlin’s sake. Not that he’d forgotten Ginny, but that wasn’t something they’d talked about, thank his lucky stars.

Her response was to tighten her arms around him to the point of pain, but he hugged her back. Not talking about things wasn’t Hermione’s style – if there was an issue he’d know about it before it became a Problem, with a capital P. He held her as he stroked her back, making lazy patterns on her knit jumper and giving her time to speak.

“I…I had to go to St. Mungo’s…” he thought he heard. Hermione’s voice was muffled into one of his old Molly Weasley Christmas sweaters.

“St. Mungo’s? What the bloody hell were you doing there? Why didn’t you Floo me? Was anyone with you?”

“George, I need you to calm down.” Her gentle voice that intended to soothe didn’t help him calm down. How could he? “I went to get an opinion on pain potion, that’s all. The one I used last night didn’t help.”

He continued to stroke her back in an attempt to reign in his emotions. She was still holding on tightly, but he rubbed at her slender shoulders to ease her out of her grip. “Do we need to pick anything up?”

“No, the Healer gave me the potions. I’m not supposed to be walking around too much, he said I need to relax for a few days.” Hermione said quietly, fiddling with a strand of wool near his neck that was escaping the knitwork of his jumper.

George shifted his body gingerly until they were almost lying down on the sofa. “Then I’ll ask Ron and Daniel to take over the shop for a few days; it’ll be good for the bloke to stop following me around so much and hoping he doesn’t mess up.”

George had hired Daniel Lemonbait as an extra set of hands around the shop so he and Ron could use their quieter days over the school term to invent without worrying about customers. He’d been a good fit so far, that Daniel, but he was eager to impress and avoided doing anything he hadn’t been specifically instructed to do. If George told him to man the register, the customers would be raving about the witty man serving them; if something fell down five feet away from him as he was serving, he wouldn’t fix it. It was infuriating, but he’d been a recommendation from Neville Longbottom of all people, so he was giving him a chance. He could forgive anything as long as he didn’t reveal any Weasley secrets.

“You don’t have to do that.” Hermione whispered.

George kissed the top of her head, letting the frizzy hairs tickle his nose for a moment. “But you want me to, so I will. I’ll go owl Ron now so he knows.”

He made to leave but she held him tighter. “I haven’t told you everything yet.”

“Oh, sorry love. What did the Healer say?”

“He thought it was stress.” Hermione said so softly his one ear couldn’t pick up on it. He moved his head away from hers and tried to look at her face. It was an awkward position for doing so, with Hermione on top of him, but he didn’t move. Her eyes were filled with tears and he watched as one fell down her cheek. He knew from experience that one move to wipe it away would mean hours of silence from her as she retreated into herself. Instead, he swallowed thickly as he waited for her to continue.

“He thought it was stress, but…no. I told him my cycle was early two months ago, when I had that meeting with the Head of the Magical Education Department. I thought it was stress then, and it most likely was…but last month I missed it completely. The Healer thought it was stress, but he did a diagnostic spell…and…and…”

Her voice up until that point had been monotonous, but she’d completely broken down by the end. Her sobs were parched, her eyes bloodshot, and her heart was broken. He looked down at the face that always had light, always shone so brightly even when they were arguing over nothing, and battled his own tears away. He had no idea what was going on, but she needed someone strong to hold onto, that much was obvious. He held on to the mess of curls gently as she buried her face into his chest, not bothering with shushing her like he had before, he knew it wouldn’t help.

Mind Healer Willems had taught him a strategy for banishing the negative thoughts of Fred out of his head years ago. When he breathed in deeply he was meant to think of Fred; not the Fred lying down with dead eyes and a half-smile, but the Fred that wandered the corridors with a whistle in the dead of night, the Fred that challenged himself to perfect whatever spells he was learning in Transfiguration so he’d have less homework to interrupt his product inventing time. When he let the breath out he was supposed to picture the air blowing into the leaves of a tree or making flames dance or whatever other bullshit would distract him until he could return to the present. It was difficult at times, but Hermione insisted that he at least attempt it when he needed to be rooted to the here and now.

He moved his free hand to the small of Hermione’s back, breathing in as much air as he could as he trailed his fingers to the nape of her neck. He held his breath as he traced a small circle with his fingertip around the soft skin, then dragged his fingers back down as he let go of the breath. He kept it up, hoping that it would give Hermione something to focus on as she calmed herself. She hadn’t seen Healer Reid in a few months now, but they met up once every few months to make sure her PTSD symptoms were laying low and not interfering with her studies. He’d have to owl her to make an appointment if whatever happened at St. Mungo’s was as bad as her reaction.

His ministrations had the desired effect after five or so minutes. He summoned a box of tissues wordlessly and offered them to her, putting them at the base of the sofa once she’d grabbed a handful. He gave her a minute to compose herself again as she wiped her eyes. She looked exhausted.

“The diagnosis spell was mixed, but he expected that.” Hermione explained, void of any emotion. Her words scared him, but her tone sent a shiver down his spine.

“Which diagnosis spell was it?” he asked hesitantly. If she was sick…

“A pregnancy detector.”

“A pregnancy detector? You told him we’ve been using every spell in the book not to have kids yet, yeah?” George asked dubiously.

“I told him that, yes. He said they’re only ninety-nine perfect effective though.”

George’s heart was about to leap out of his chest in an excitement he never would’ve predicted. They weren’t married – hell, they weren’t even engaged because he hadn’t found the “perfect time” to propose with the ring he’d gotten her. But they were meant to be, it was as simple as that. There was nothing that made him as happy as Hermione could make him, nothing that could even cast a rivalling shadow when the bright thoughts of Hermione took over his mind. Maybe he could encourage her to take an extra few days off after her rest, he could take her somewhere sunny and historic and as inspiring as her; maybe that would give him the confidence he sorely lacked in the romance department from time to time.

His soaring heart fell from the heavens as reality caught up with him. Mixed results. That couldn’t be anything good.

“Hermione, love, what does mix-”

“I was pregnant.” she interrupted, choking out the words. “Was. All that back pain I had, combined with a little bit of weight loss…I was pregnant.”

Was.

The word rang through his head like he was stuck in a bell tower. He was twenty-five, his mum would’ve just been about to pop out Percy when she was his age. Ginny was probably working on getting pregnant again (a thought he didn’t want in his head). Percy was most likely going down the same path with his wife; Fleur would make him an uncle again any day now. Teddy was six, going on seven soon. He was surrounded by kids now that he thought about it.

Hermione herself had only just turned twenty-two. Muggleborns were the most likely to have kids later in life, that’s the way they were raised. He was surprised Ginny had had a baby so quickly when she’d been so career driven, but maybe it was something she and Harry needed after coming so close to losing everything. Wasn’t that what Hermione told him once, that kids were a way of showing that they’d won?

He remembered that conversation with a grimace. He’d been so against the thought of having his own kid, even the possibility of losing them too early like Fred had sent him in to a state of shock and denial. He’d also been single then, single for the better part of four years if he didn’t include one night shags or friendly arrangements with the pretty girls who versed him in Quidditch at school. He was in no position back then to raise a kid properly without moving back to the Burrow and begging his mum for help. But things had changed since that night he’d finally kissed Hermione three years ago. He had moved on some, he’d grown up some more, and he was as happy as he thought he could be with a woman he loved and a shop that made people smile. He’d even brought her a ring to show Hermione how much she’d come to mean to him after writing their book and getting through the tedious months of avoiding interviews and journalists that he didn’t expect. If she’d come home today and told George she was pregnant, he’d quite likely shout his enjoyment from the top of the big Welcome Weasley’s hat outside of the store.

But that hadn’t happened, had it?

“Can you still have kids?” he asked, his voice cracking as he asked.

“Yeah, I should be able to. The Healer said it was a complete miscarriage in the tenth week, so something either happened to the baby or something went wrong when it was conceived or I…messed up.”

“You didn’t.” George said with every assurance. “The only way you could’ve ‘messed up’ is if you knew you were pregnant and did something to risk it intentionally. You didn’t do any of those things, love; you were perfect. It just wasn’t meant to be.”

Hermione nodded slowly into his shoulder, her hand that had been fiddling with his jumper now twirling around the hair at the bottom of his neck. She didn’t believe him, George could tell.

“Hey.” he said gently, lifting her chin delicately with his knuckles so she was looking at him. Her round, red eyes tore at his heart as she blinked away the remainder of her tears. “It wasn’t your fault. Fred said so.”

“Fred said so… what does that mean?” Hermione asked with creased brows.

She must’ve forgotten how she’d found him earlier. Completely understandable too, she was feeling a lot of emotions. “I think I died.”

“George, you weren’t breathing! You were barely warm!” she cried as she sat up. Her face crumpled into pain as she grabbed her stomach, her body folding in on itself unconsciously. George sat up and wrapped his arms around her again and wascareful not to rock her as she rubbed her belly.

“You weren’t breathing, George!” she said as he rubbed her back. “I was so worried, and then you took a breath and snapped straight up! Were you experimenting with something new?”

“I haven’t done anything today; I was enjoying my day off as you said I should. I just lay down for a few minutes and drifted off to sleep, and I was definitely sleeping because I was having a dream about school and Lee, and then everything faded to white and Fred was confused.” He confessed.

Hermione continued to rub her stomach as she eyed him. “Do you have sleep apnea or something?”

“I have no idea what that is.” He said earnestly.

She sighed in response. “It’s when you stop breathing during your sleep, but from what I remember it usually only lasts for a few seconds. If you really seeing Fred that would mean you were out of it for quite a while.”

“It was Fred. It was definitely Fred.”

He should’ve expected her less-than-enthusiastic response, really. If Hermione had told him that she’d talked to Remus or Tonks in her sleep he’d be sending her off for every assessment and test under the sun to make sure she wouldn’t casually die in her sleep ever again. He knew the only reason he wasn’t getting the same treatment at the moment was because of her physical and emotion duress.

“That’s not healthy, George. You need to see someone about it.” She insisted, finally stopping her hand moving against her stomach as she stood up. She gingerly stepped to the other end of the couch and lay down and George helped her lift her legs onto his lap. He slipped her shoes off and massaged her feet through her tights, giving him something to do as he thought about his brother.

“I’ll see someone about it tomorrow, okay? I’ll head to St. Mungo’s first thing in the morning, but tonight I’m taking care of you.” George said with a tone that left no room for argument. It wasn’t a tone he used often with Hermione, it was usually reserved for his nosy siblings.

She nodded at him with closed eyes, bringing her hands back to her stomach. Her lips were downturned as she scratched idly and thought things over.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“Fred?”

“Yeah.”

“He said I wasn’t ready to join him.”

Hermione opened her eyes. “That’s it?”

“Of course not! I dunno, he was all misty and that, I couldn’t touch him or anything. It was like something was still separating us.”

“As morbid as it sounds,” Hermione said. “It was probably your heart beating. If that had stopped for a long enough time you probably would’ve been able to touch him. Is it sel-”

She cut herself off. George watched as she shut her eyes again, not letting him see what she was thinking. They could read each other quite well, and it was nice to have that connection with someone again. Most of the time.

“Tell me.” George said with a sigh.

“Don’t hate me?” she asked with a lilt to her voice.

“Couldn’t if I tried.” he replied truthfully. Her eyes opened as she smiled at him softly, a sadness taking over them a moment after. She looked at her hands instead of him as she spoke.

“I was going to ask if it was selfish of me to be happy that you couldn’t touch him.”

George could hear a sliver of fear in her voice even though he found her question perfectly reasonable. “S’a bit selfish but who cares? You’re happy I didn’t die, who would blame you for that?”

“I guess.” she muttered doubtfully.

“Love, I’d much rather be here than there, I assure you.” George said as he stopped rubbing her feet. She looked at him as he stopped and he caught her gaze. “I love you, simple as that. If I went to wherever Fred is, you wouldn’t be there. I wouldn’t be happy.”

“But you’d have Fred back.” Hermione pointed out.

“So? He reminded me I’d see him again someday, and he’s right. But right here and now? I’ve got a lot of living left to do. I can’t have a future if I’m with him.”

“But you miss him.” Hermione insisted.

“I do. I miss him every damn day, but he’s there, he’s watching over me. Well, he was. Now he’s sort of just getting a reading of what I’m up to. But you’re right, I miss him. What do you want me to do about it?”

Hermione’s mouth was half open in shock. It was a rude question to ask, but he wanted her to understand him. “It’s gonna hurt every day he’s not here making mischief with me, but that’s okay. I didn’t get crushed by that wall for a reason, I’ve got enough life for the both of us to continue to make people laugh and forget about their problems for a while. I’ve got enough life left to see the world and marry you and open up a shop on the Continent and in Australia or wherever else we want to go; I’ve got enough life and trouble in me to strike fear into my siblings as I babysit their kids. Once all that’s done then I’ll see Fred again, so don’t worry about it, okay?”

His long-winded speech seemed to bring tears to her eyes, which, he thought, was the last thing she needed after a day like today. He reached out to grab one of her hands and kissed the back of it, unable to reach her lips with her legs on top of his. One of her watery eyes spilled a tear, but she was smiling brighter than he’d thought possible.

“You want to marry me?”

He felt his cheeks flame red and his dipped his head to cover it with his long hair. The obstructed view gave him a moment to think over what he said and he nearly slapped himself. He told her he wanted to marry her. The surprise he’d been trying to plan was ruined. Shit on a brick.

“I mean yeah, one day – why, is that bad?”

Obviously it wasn’t if he went by the smile on her face. It was a glorious beacon of hope.

“Don’t get your hopes up yet;” George warned. “I haven’t got anything planned at all.”

Her smile grew as he paid close attention to the details of her tights. “You do have something planned!” Hermione said with glee. The glee was coming from finding out, not from knowing she was potentially about to get engaged, her expression that he glanced at said it all.

“Let’s just say I hypothetically wanted to marry you, would you hypothetically say yes?” he asked casually as he started massaging her other foot, not letting himself look at her face. He was acting like a nervous teenager but he couldn’t help it – it wasn’t everyday you hypothetically asked someone to marry you. Hypothetically, of course.

“You could hypothesise that, yes. Theoretically there would have be no tricks or pranks or jokes that go along with it otherwise your experimentation wouldn’t be up to snuff.”

“Naturally.” George agreed. He continued working on her foot for a while, uncharacteristically unsure of what to say next. Hermione didn’t offer anything else either, so the two sat there in a comfortable silence. He still didn’t look at her; his ever-pranking mind had coughed up the dead mouse of a thought that she was playing him a fool even though that wasn’t her style.

The foot he was holding tensed up suddenly. He looked up in surprise, letting the hair fall away from his face. Hermione’s wide eyes met his, fear and worry dilating her pupils. He stopped moving his hand but she was still tense. George opened his mouth to speak but she spoke first.

“What if it’s a sign?” she asked in her whisper that usually scared him.

“What if what’s a sign?”

She hesitated for a moment before gesturing to her stomach, one hand still rubbing the same spot as before.

_Oh._

“What if we can’t have kids?” he asked, confirming her question. Her nod was barely perceptible and her eyes were still wide with fear. George sighed and lifted her legs from his lap, sliding down the couch and pushing her forward gently until he was sandwiched between his love and the sofa. He wrapped an arm around her front and tucked his hand against her ribs and between the worn sofa cushions.

“Love, I didn’t even want kids when we started dating. You knew that then and despite that fact you still gave us a shot. Why?”

“Because I was in love with you.”

“Exact- wait, you were already in love with me when we started dating?” George asked, surprised at her answer. He was already head over heels with her, but he didn’t know she felt the same. She nodded and warmth spread from his heart to the rest of his body. He kissed the space between her ear and her neck and continued. “Anyway, you loved me. And I loved you. Still do, actually. But we had different plans in life and you took a chance on us and now look where we are, cuddled on the couch and talking about getting married.”

“Hypothetically.” she said with a slight tint of humour. He kissed her again.

“Exactly. If it is a sign and we can’t have a baby when we feel ready, we can do everything else we can do to make the world a better place. You can have your school and teach children how to not be little shits like Fred and I, and I can run my shop and inspire the next generation to mess with old Filch. Or we could adopt a child that needs a loving home, or we could…well, I don’t really know what else we could do, but gimme a day or two and I can work it all out. I’ll do anything you want me to do.”

Hermione pulled his arm out from under her and rolled over carefully to face him. “Anything?” she asked breathily.

“Anything.” he repeated as he slipped his arm back around her.

“Kiss me?”

He didn’t hesitate to move his lips against hers. Hermione, as brilliant as she was, was terrible about talking about her emotions. Sure, she could eventually say what was upsetting her or making her nostalgic or excited, but it was the way she spoke with her body that he had to learn from scratch. He reckoned he had learnt it pretty well in the past three or so years; if there was a N.E.W.T level class for Granger Body Language he’d Apparate to the Ministry and take the test then and there.

It was the little things he’d look for, the tell-tale signs that she couldn’t always say out loud. If she was playing with a strand of her hair she was thinking, if she had a bunch of her hair and/or was tying it up she was looking for a shouting match. Sometimes he’d engage with the verbal sparring, sometimes she’d sit down and cross her arms. That meant ‘don’t come near me unless you want your remaining ear forcibly ripped off’, and he had learnt that the hard way.

If she had a grin it meant that she was happy to play along with whatever he was babbling on about at that moment, but two eyebrows raised meant it was final call for jokes on the subject (one eyebrow meaning there was no final call at all). If her eyes rolled at anything it meant she either took whatever he said the wrong way or it meant she was flattered by his flirting but didn’t want to encourage it. He always continued it.

If she held a hand out for him to take it meant that she was thinking about things she used to go to therapy for and she needed something to distract her. Those were usually the times he’d ignore her hand and hold her head instead, tilting it up towards him and kissing him for all he was worth. It had become second nature for her to hold a hand out these days, even when she wasn’t thinking about anything bad at all.

If she had genuine, closed lip smile, he knew to keep doing whatever he was doing at that exact moment because she was storing it in her memory. If her eyes were crinkled when she smiled like that it meant she was reliving a similar memory from a different day, and if she gave him a kiss on the cheek afterwards it was her way of saying she loved him. He didn’t know if it was a female thing or a Granger thing, but she rarely explicitly told him she loved him, she preferred to show it. If she turned up at the shop it meant she was feeling harassed or threatened on the street, but if she had a drink in her hand or food for him it simply meant she missed him. Those appearances were few and far between because he’d instantly stop whatever he was doing and join her. Cutting off a customer mid-sentence was rude according to his lovely love, but when she stood there with the sun shining through her hair and a closed lip smile, he just had to join her.

Whenever she said something out loud though, those were the times he kept in his own memory. They were the rare and wonderful words that messed up his experiments and gave him goofy grins for no apparent reason. They were the reason he felt the familiar feeling of water washing over him like it had that night they’d first kissed. That night should’ve been a sign for him, a sign that he had much to learn, but he was too overcome with emotion back then to realise.

Baby or no baby, she was his, and he was hers, and there was no way he’d let something as trivial as that tear them apart. They helped each other when they needed it, and they were meant to be. Simple as that.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
